Equus Resurrection

[ChristopherSea]

final

Equus Resurrection

I recall her sun-sluiced silhouette
in dressage atop a chosen thoroughbred,
as I navigated abrasive horsetails
and stampeding memories
of when she corralled me in study hall
with that lengthy kiss,
roping me in.

Not quite an Ivory Snow Girl,
her nature had elements of boot leather,
all saddle-soaped, snorting tannins.
With a tip of her helm and snap of a riding crop,
she’d flourish ribbons of her equestrian conquests,
deriding my pedestrian trail.
Was I suffering from horse envy?
Neigh, I’d whinny, deluding myself.

Bareback on prom night and 17-hands in heels,
she labored in peach chiffon, legs kicking beneath,
whipping up a bustle of geese and horse-feathers
to wing her off to college in migratory ‘V.’
Was it for Victory, Vaginal supremacy
or some mustang Vacillation
that cantered autumn so abstrusely?

I almost forgot this wild appaloosa,
her heel’s yoke, shank and rowel,
and how I was gelded that Christmas
(no longer her pet stable boy).
Memories virtually archeological,
except for wondering why I paused,
decades later, in that field of equisetum,
a scouring-grass that once ruled
the Paleozoic forest undergrowth,
yet today is the sole survivor
of its genus.

Though riddled with old nagging
memories and half-truths of horse-tales,
I found the rasping siliceous fingers
comforting now as I sat among them
and understood what it is like
to be a living fossil.



Thank you Todd!

--------------------------------------------
Todd edit3 Thanks my mentor

Equus Resurrection

I recall her sun-sluiced silhouette
in dressage atop a chosen thoroughbred,
as I navigated abrasive horsetails
and stampeding memories
of when she corralled me in study hall
with that lengthy kiss,
roping me in.

Not quite an Ivory Snow Girl,
her nature had elements of boot leather,
all saddle-soaped, snorting tannins.
With a tip of her helm and snap of a riding crop,
she’d flourish ribbons of her equestrian conquests,
deriding my pedestrian trail.
Was I suffering from horse envy?
Neigh, I’d whinny, deluding myself.

Bareback on prom night and 17-hands in heels,
she labored in peach chiffon, legs kicking beneath,
whipping up a bustle of geese and horse-feathers
to wing her off to college in migratory ‘V.’
Was it for Victory, Vaginal supremacy
or some mustang Vacillation
that cantered autumn so abstrusely?

I almost forgot this wild appaloosa,
her heel’s yoke, shank and rowel,
and how I was gelded that Christmas
(no longer her pet stable boy).
Memories virtually archeological,
except for wondering why I paused,
decades later, in that field of equisetum,
a scouring-grass that once ruled
the Paleozoic forest undergrowth,
yet today is the sole survivor
of its genus.

Though riddled with old nagging
memories and half-truths of horse-tales,
I found the rasping siliceous fingers
comforting now as I sat among them
and understood what it is like
to be a living fossil.


----------------------------------
Unwelcome reflection
reined in my thoughts,
as I navigated abrasive horsetails,
shunning contaminating spores.
Nipping fronds halted my egress
along with stampeding memories
of when she corralled me in study hall,
spurring schooldays of frivol and reverie;
that lengthy kiss that roped me in.

Not quite an Ivory Snow Girl,
her nature had elements of boot leather,
all saddle-soaped and snorting tannin.
Russet locks whipped quietly freckled shoulders,
rousing zephyrs of lavender and hay infusions,
constitutives of some hexing attar.

I recall her sun-sluiced silhouette
in dressage atop her chosen thoroughbred.
With a tip of her helm and snap of riding crop,
she’d flourish ribbons of her equestrian fetish,
deriding my pedestrian sphere.
Was I suffering from horse envy?
Neigh, I’d whinny, deluding myself.

Bareback on prom night and 17-hands in heels,
she labored in peach chiffon, legs kicking beneath,
whipping up a bustle of geese and horse-feathers
to wing her off to college in migratory ‘V.’
Was it for Victory, Vaginal supremacy
or some mustang Vacillation
that cantered autumn so abstrusely?

I almost forgot this wild appaloosa,
her heel’s yoke, shank and rowel,
and how I was gelded that Christmas
(no longer her pet stable boy).
Memories virtually archeological,
except for wondering why I paused,
decades later, in that field of equisetum,
a scouring-grass that once ruled
the Paleozoic forest undergrowth,
yet today is the sole survivor
of its genus.

Though riddled with old nagging
memories and half-truths of horse-tales,
I found their rasping siliceous fingers
comforting as I sat among them

and understood what it is like

to be a living fossil.